


Maybe One Day

by vondrostes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Harry, Come Marking, Comeplay, Enemies to Lovers, Flower Child Harry, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Psychic Abilities, Rough Sex, Supernatural Elements, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 17:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14477559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vondrostes/pseuds/vondrostes
Summary: Louis has a strange encounter with a long-haired stranger one night and can't get it out of his head.





	Maybe One Day

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe 'maybe' was their always.
> 
> I'm sorry, I had to make that joke. This was a super old idea for a short story I had like 5 years ago that I suddenly decided to use for fic one day. If you read and enjoy this, please consider checking out some of my other work. I have a very long L/H fic in progress right now that you may enjoy. 
> 
> Follow me on Twitter for more writing goodies: @vondrostes (personal) & @TerranAlleen (writing updates)

Louis spent most evenings working overnights in a corner shop by the university, watching drunk students trickle in at all hours, clearly living their best lives while he was stuck behind a counter, watching from a distance. But he wasn’t bitter about it. The pay was decent enough for the amount of work involved. Most nights Louis just messed around on his phone watching Netflix on mute or playing Candy Crush between the occasional customer.

The evening visitors were usually loud and rambunctious, piling into the tiny shop in groups to pull snacks off the shelves or drinks from the fridge. They tended to reek of cigarette smoke, which Louis hated because it made his fingers itch for one no matter how long it had been since his last. Ben, his manager, was usually still around to help deal with the ten PM rush, after which he would clock out for the night and leave Louis to fend for himself.

Things would quiet down after that, the flow of customers dwindling down to a trickle till about one in the morning, at which they would nearly stop altogether except for the odd stray.

On this particular night, Louis hadn’t seen a human being since nearly eleven, which was unusual for a Friday. It was just after two-thirty now, and Louis felt like he could fall asleep at any second just from pure boredom.

The bell over the door tinkled suddenly, signalling a customer. Louis straightened, trying to look more alert as an unusually tall girl wandered in and headed straight for the liquor section at the back. Well, Louis had thought it was a girl from behind anyway, with their long hair done up in a bun and clad in skinny jeans and a wool pea coat with feminine lines, but now that the person’s face was visible in the security mirrors, their masculine features suggested otherwise.

Louis tried not to make any assumptions. He’d managed one gender and sexuality course at uni before deciding the whole gig wasn’t really for him. But he’d still retained enough information to recognise that appearances didn’t dictate gender, so on, so forth. Niall would’ve been proud.

The customer, who Louis had now privately decided to call ‘the hippie’, browsed the limited selection of wine before plucking their most expensive red from the rack and turning round to come up to the counter.

Louis could see now that they were facing him that they looked exhausted, face gaunt with sleepy bags under their eyes. The hippie set the bottle down heavily on the counter and looked at Louis expectantly without blinking as he rung up the purchase.

“Would you like a receipt, s—” Louis started to say before realising his potential mistake and going beet-red.

The hippie stared at him in vague amusement. “You can say ‘sir’ if that’s what you’re so hung up on,” he remarked in a surprisingly husky voice.

Louis blushed harder and printed him a receipt even though the hippie hadn’t answered the question, just to cover up his own embarrassment. Louis could make out a smattering of tattoos on the hippie’s hand and wrist, peeking out from under the cuff of his coat, as Louis reached across the counter to hand over the receipt. Their hands brushed for the briefest of seconds in the exchange, and then Louis pulled back to finish out the transaction.

The other man had an entirely different reaction. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating abruptly. The bottle of wine clutched in his right hand slipped from his fingers without warning and fell to the floor in an explosion of blood-red liquid and shattered glass.

Louis had already darted around to the front of the counter to evaluate the mess by the time the hippie so much as moved a muscle.

“Are you okay?” Louis asked, reaching forward in the hopes that a human touch might jolt him out of whatever dissociative state he’d seemingly slipped into.

The hippie jumped back before Louis could make contact, still looking like a deer caught in the headlights—the slender knock-kneed legs did nothing to dispel the illusion. “I have to go,” he choked out, his eyes swivelling around but pointedly looking everywhere but at Louis. “I’m sorry, I—I have to go.”

Louis watched in bewilderment as the hippie raced out of the store, with his Chelseas crunching carefully through the broken remains of the wine bottle at first, before breaking into a full sprint once he was past the wreckage.

Louis didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t the first time someone had broken something on his shift, and it was certainly an easier clean-up than the time those girls had knocked over an entire crisps display, but it was rather unusual that the culprit had been sober at the time. And there was just something about the whole thing that Louis couldn’t get out of his head.

Even when the floor was once again spotless—or at least, as clean as the linoleum tile could get after years of stains had set in—Louis found himself obsessing over the encounter.

He pulled out his phone, penning a quick tweet to memorialise the occasion: _some long haired hippie mfer just dropped a bottle of wine in the middle of the store and then bolted . no he wasnt drunk . #weirdshit_

It was only a few minutes before Liam responded, despite it being nearly three. _maybe he was wowed by ur baby blues ;P_

Louis rolled his eyes. _he had a cross tattoo on his hand, maybe he could just sense the devil in me ._

 _cant blame him m8_ was Liam’s scathing reply.

Louis was just about to pull up Netflix when another notification rolled in. He was surprised to see it was from Niall. Usually he tried to keep his night-owling confined to the holidays, after two years of complaining that his weekends spent partying were having a negative impact on his normal sleep schedule during the school week.

 _young guy?_ he’d written. _brown hair?_

Louis wasn’t sure why Niall even cared, but he replied affirmatively.

But before Niall had a chance to respond, the chimes over the door sounded again. Louis hastily shoved his phone back into his pocket, hoping almost in spite of himself that when he looked up it would be the hippie coming in through the doorway.

He was disappointed. It was an older woman, who marched straight up to the counter to buy a pack of fags. Louis turned around to unlock the case with a quiet sigh, annoyed with himself for getting so hung up on some rando he hadn’t even had a real conversation with.

After that the night turned typical, with a steady stream of drunks and uni students (not necessarily mutually exclusive categories) flooding in for late night snacks and pick-me-ups, leaving Louis little time to think about the incident earlier, and no time at all to check his phone.

Louis had practically forgotten about his tweet when he got home to find the flat completely silent at half-seven, everyone else already fast asleep. It wasn’t until he’d stripped down to just his pants and flopped into bed that he remembered to check.

He rolled back out with a groan, wishing he could just go to sleep without knowing the anticipation of reading Niall’s reply would keep him awake despite his overwhelming exhaustion. Hopefully Niall had replied. Louis would march into his room and kill Niall himself if he’d left some cryptic response on Louis’s tweet and then gone to bed without explaining himself.

Louis was pleased to find that Niall hadn’t quite descended to that level when he extracted his phone from his jeans and checked his notifications, but the reply Niall had left wasn’t exactly worth the hype.

_think hes in 1 of m classes._

Great. Thanks for the update, Niall.

_brilliant . maybe we can all get together & have a picnic ._

Louis had intended the comment sarcastically, but even so, caught himself wondering just a few seconds later if there was a way Niall could introduce them, if only so Louis could get some closure. Louis scolded himself immediately upon realising he was actually entertaining the notion.

Zayn, who apparently wasn’t actually asleep despite the quiet, seemed to be on board the same train of thought. _Are you rly so desperate youre trying to pick up drunk weirdos now?_ he replied within seconds of Louis responding to Niall. Apparently Zayn’s reading comprehension hadn’t improved much since graduating.

 _HE WASNT DRUNK_ Louis sent back, before collapsing back into bed and tossing his phone away to deal with later.

Louis woke up to a cacophony of noise emanating through the flat, the sound of pots and pangs banging away in the kitchen. He stumbled out of his bedroom in a delirious haze, coming face to face with Liam, who was red-faced and sweating, with half their dishes laid out all around him like a cast-iron and ceramic recreation of the last supper.

“The hell are you doing, mate?” Louis grumbled. One glance at the clock above the cooking range told him it was nearly five. He needed to stop working overnights for his own sanity. Nine hours of sleep after a shift was ridiculous.

“Cooking,” Liam replied, looking even more frazzled under Louis’s scrutiny.

“I can see that. Why?”

“Because Cheryl’s coming round.”

“The cougar?”

“Don’t call her that!” The look on Liam’s face made it clear he was experiencing some genuine stress, and wasn’t in the mood for Louis’s usual brand of teasing. “At least I’m not hung up on some mentalist from the shop,” he countered.

It was Louis’s turn to blush. “I’m not hung up on—” he started to argue, only to be interrupted when Niall threw open the front door and came bursting in with a gust of chilly autumn wind following behind.

He had a leaf stuck in his hair but seemed oblivious to its presence as he sauntered over to investigate the mess Liam had created in their tiny little kitchen. “What’s cracking on, lads?” he asked, sidling in next to Louis. He looked far too cheery for someone who had just gotten out of class, even if it was a Friday.

“Louis was just telling me all about his crush on that drunk chap from the shop last night,” Liam said with a smirk.

“He wasn’t drunk,” Louis countered exasperatedly, forgetting until too late that he hadn’t argued with the more pertinent portion of Liam’s answer.

“Oh, right,” Niall replied, digging his hand into his jeans to extract his phone. “It’s him, right?”

Louis was treated to an abysmally blurry photo of someone that looked like a cross between Slenderman and Bigfoot, but the hair was a dead giveaway.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“He’s in my psych course,” Niall informed him.

“Did he—” Louis stopped, knowing if he asked the question on the tip of his tongue that he’d never hear the end of it. Ah, well. Fuck it. “Did he seem different today?”

Liam started cackling in the background, as Louis had predicted, but both he and Niall ignored it.

“Couldn’t say, really. Never paid much attention to him before this. But—” He held up a finger, as if Louis, in his socks and pants, was in danger of suddenly rushing off before Niall was finished.

Niall reached into his trousers again, this time pulling out his wallet and rifling through it for a good minute before extracting a crumpled business card and handing it to Louis, who accepted it dubiously.

“Got it from one of the girls in class Harry’s always talking to,” Niall explained.

“Harry?” Louis questioned.

“The guy you tweeted about. Keep up, Lou.”

“Right,” he replied dryly. Louis took a closer glance at the business card, turning it over to read both the front and back for clues. Clues to what, he wasn’t quite sure yet. “Psychic readings?” he read aloud, arching an eyebrow in disbelief.

Niall put his hands up in surrender. “Hey, my job here is done. It’s all down to you, pal.”

Liam was still sniggering to himself when Louis pocketed the card. Louis turned and gave the mess of pots and pans a pointed look. “Better get your shit together before Cheryl shows up,” he pointed out, knocking the smile right off Liam’s smug little face.

Shortly thereafter, Niall and Louis decided to flee the flat in anticipation of Liam’s date, not wanting to be around for the aftermath of Liam’s attempt at a homecooked meal. Zayn was already waiting for them at a pub just down the road, so as soon as Louis was dressed and presentable, they headed out, with every intention of not returning until they were certain Liam was alone once more.

It was the weekend and none of them had any obligations in the morning, so they started in on a round of shots as soon as they arrived. The other university students in the area had all had similar ideas; the place was packed.

It wasn’t long before Louis felt his buzz start to set in. Niall was trading jokes with the bartender, Zayn already well on his way to a threesome with two pretty blondes he’d managed to chat up before they’d even arrived, but Louis was still scoping the place out, not settling on anyone in particular just yet.

Then his eyes landed on a head of familiar brown curls and he nearly choked on his drink.

“Oh my god,” Louis blurted out.

“What?” Niall jerked his head around without any subtlety whatsoever, frantically scanning the bar for what had inspired Louis’s outburst.

“Nothing,” Louis replied quickly, but he was already up and out of his seat. “I’ll be right back.” He darted away in the direction that he’d just spotted Harry across the pub, cutting a careful swath through the mass of bodies that stood in his path.

He didn’t exactly have a plan for what he was going to say when he finally reached Harry, but it didn’t matter—Harry spotted him from more than a dozen yards away and made an immediate beeline for the door.

By the time Louis made it out onto the street, Harry was gone, leaving Louis standing out there on the pavement looking like a complete arsehole.

Feeling strangely dejected, Louis retreated back into the pub, returning to his seat with considerably less energy than he’d had when he’d left.

“Where’d you go?” Niall asked, almost yelling to be heard over the din around them. “You spot a hot chick or something and decide to ditch us?”

“Something like that,” Louis mumbled into his drink.

Louis wasn’t sure how much longer they stayed out after that, but by the time they left the pub, he was aware in some distant corner of his mind that he had consumed far too much alcohol for any single human being to handle.

He just barely exited the pub under his own power, but had to be almost carried by Zayn and Niall back down the road to their flat, even though Niall wasn’t doing much better himself. Without any residual rationality to cloud his thoughts, Louis was free to dwell on what might have been, had he managed to corner Harry in that pub.

“D’you think it’s fate we keep running into each other?” Louis asked the world at large, his words slurring together into a jumbled mess.

“The hell is he talking about?” Niall wondered out loud.

Zayn laughed on Louis’s other side and tugged him along, faring much better than the other two in terms of sobriety despite having been at the pub nearly an hour longer. “This is really becoming a thing for you, isn’t it?” he remarked to Louis, who was far too drunk to come up with an intelligent response.

Louis was barely conscious by the time they made it into the flat to find Liam sitting on the couch with a tub of ice cream in his lap watching some dopey romcom (and even if Louis had been stone cold sober, he wouldn’t have asked). He jumped up as soon as they stumbled in, taking over for Niall, and helping Zayn carry Louis into bed, where he passed out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Louis woke up with acidic drool gluing the left half of his face to the pillowcase, a sour taste in the back of his throat, and a headache the size of Mount Everest pounding away at the base of his skull. But obscuring all of that for the moment was a renewed sense of determination after spotting Harry last night at the pub. Louis was determined to find him now, and to confront him, and to find out what the hell had spooked him so bad that night in the shop that he’d literally dropped everything and run.

Louis peeled his face away from the crusty pillow and sat up with a groan. He could tell right off that this wasn’t the sort of hangover that would disappear with a greasy breakfast and a shower, and from the churning of his stomach, he didn’t think any food at all was in order for a few more hours at least.

Even so, Louis was experienced enough to know that he’d only feel worse if he didn’t get something in him though, so after stripping off his jeans—Zayn or Niall had been kind enough to take off his shoes for him—he wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

It was rancid. At least, to Louis’s taste buds, which had been fermenting overnight in a pool of alcohol-drenched saliva and a little bit of bile. So much for that plan.

He settled on water after thoroughly brushing his teeth and hopping into the shower, confident he could feel his individual cells re-inflating as he downed the tepid liquid straight from the tap.

Feeling somewhat invigorated by the meagre post-hangover self-care routing, Louis pulled out his phone and dug the business card Niall had given him out of his wallet, searching directions to the address provided on the back.

“Goddammit,” he muttered to himself once they’d loaded. It was a lot further from the university than he’d expected. Walking was out of the question. He double-checked the coach schedule. Louis could still make it in good time if he left now.

It was still early enough when Louis finally slipped out of the flat that the others were all still asleep after their night out. He preferred it that way, not wanting to face a round of inane questions from his roommates when he was already pressed for time.

In the end Louis still barely made his coach, but it was smooth sailing after that, if one could call the migration into a much more dilapidated part of the city ‘smooth’. Louis was a little concerned over the idea of Harry, and his absurdly expensive-looking pea coats, working here, glancing around suspiciously as he walked up the road past a section of active construction before turning into a narrow little street full of various shops that seemed to have no cohesion to them whatsoever.

When he finally located his intended destination, a rather boring looking bookstore bordered by an unleased space on the left and a tiny little bakery on the right. Louis hesitated before going in, contemplating popping into the bakery for a bite to eat now that he was confident he could actually stomach solid food again. Maybe if things with Harry went well they could—

He stopped himself before the thought could develop any further and marched straight into the bookstore.

Inside Louis didn’t find anything terribly unusual, just rows and rows of books, with a few odd trinkets placed strategically at the front counter. Upon taking a closer look, Louis discovered that the books were of the calibre he had anticipated for a place that advertised free psychic readings with any purchase over fifty pounds. A lot of shit with ‘wicca’ in the title, and a couple tomes that looked like they had been written in Latin scattered here and there. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason to the way they were organised on the shelves, and Louis wondered if that had any impact on the shop’s ability to make sales.

He couldn’t fathom a reason anyone would have for patronising the place, especially Harry, who—apart from the long hippie hair—didn’t really look like the type of person who would be caught dead in some back-alley DIY witchcraft shop.

Louis finally tore his eyes away from the books and scanned the rest of the shop looking for clues, or any sign that Harry was actually employed here, and that Louis wasn’t wasting his time on a wild goose chase.

There was a girl lounging behind the cash register, peering suspiciously at Louis over the top of her magazine as he tried to look like an interested customer. He was stalling, trying to think of the best way to ask about Harry without sounding like a creep or a lunatic.

After a few minutes, the girl at the counter finally slammed her magazine down with a sigh and came marching over to Louis, stopping at the other end of the bookcase he was pretending to browse to glare at him pointedly with her hands on her hips. “Can I help you?” she demanded.

“Just looking,” Louis replied, all faux sweetness.

The girl—Sarah, it said on her nametag—wasn’t having it. “No, you’re loitering,” she told him. “I don’t know if you’re here to gawk or what, but if you aren’t planning to buy anything, you need to leave.”

“That’s not—I’m not—”

Louis couldn’t quite get the right words out to explain himself. The door behind the counter marked ‘STAFF’ opened as he was still stuttering in the face of Sarah’s unyielding stare, and another woman emerged, this one appearing openly concerned as she took in the scene.

“Sarah?” she inquired. “Is something wrong?”

“Actually,” Louis cut in before Sarah could respond, “I have this?” He quickly procured the business card Niall had given him from his wallet and handed it over for the other woman to examine. “Harry works here, right? He’s a friend of a friend, so I was hoping—"

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, surveying the crumpled card with a healthy amount of scepticism.

It took a moment before Louis connected the dots. Harry was the one who did the psychic readings? Harry? “A friend recommended me,” Louis fibbed. “It was kind of a spur of the moment thing.”

She continued frowning down at the business card in her hand. “I’ll check to see if Harry can fit you in between readings,” she said finally. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Louis.”

The woman nodded, and looked pointedly at Sarah, who had yet to move from her post at the end of the bookcase. “Sarah? The register?”

Sarah retreated back to her post with one last baleful glare aimed in Louis’s direction as the other woman headed into the back, leaving Louis with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs as he waited. She was only gone a few minutes, but to Louis it felt like an eternity before she finally returned, an impassive expression plastered across her face.

“Well, you’re in luck,” she said, and Louis had to suppress the sigh of relief that threatened to erupt from his lungs at hearing the words. “Follow me.”

Louis was surprised when she led him past Sarah, who had the audacity to smirk as he walked by, and into the staff-only door, through which there was a short corridor with another three doors—two on either side and one at the very end. The woman leading Louis opened the one on the right, and as soon as she turned the knob, Louis was hit with a smorgasbord of different scents, some spicy, some sweet, but all overwhelming.

The interior was dimly lit with dozens of candles, the whole space just barely large enough to cram in a small wooden table and a couple chairs. Louis’s eyes homed in on Harry’s hunched over form immediately, even though he could only just make out the top of his head. His hair had been braided and pulled into a messy bun, and instead of his elegant pea coat, Harry was dressed in a loose pink tunic, the neckline low enough to reveal a hint of black ink under his collarbone.

He looked even more like a hippie now than he had during their first encounter, and suddenly Louis could buy into the idea of Harry as a fraudulent psychic. He froze, starting to second-guess himself now, but the woman behind him gave him a gentle prod in the direction of the chair closest to the door, and then Louis was seating himself without thinking about it directly across from Harry, close enough to touch.

“Five minutes,” the woman warned Louis before walking out of the room.

Harry didn’t so much as glance at Louis when he sat down, scribbling intently in his notebook without pause even as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Yes or no questions work best,” Harry recited mechanically. “I can’t give specifics, but I can usually sense the tone of an outcome; whether it will turn out good or bad. If you want to know whether your partner is cheating on you, you’ll need to make a special appointment and bring them with—"

Harry suddenly looked up.

“Mitch!”

“No wait,” Louis protested, holding his hands out in surrender. “I just want to talk to you, okay? Just for a minute. Please.”

Harry just continued to stare like he expected Louis to leap across the table and attack him. Louis couldn’t help but wonder if that had happened before.

A lanky man with hair as long as Harry’s, Mitch, Louis assumed, rushed in through the door Louis had just come through. “H? What’s the matter?”

“Get him out of here,” Harry said evenly, though Louis could tell from the slight trembling of his lower lip that he was just barely keeping it together. “Now, please.”

“Hey, come on,” Louis said without moving from the chair. “I can pay you! I just want to ask you—about what happened.”

“This was a mistake. You need to leave.” He nodded meaningfully to Mitch, who seized Louis’s arm without hesitation, pulling him up insistently.

“C’mon, man. If H doesn’t want to see you, you’re gone. Sorry.”

It wasn’t the first time Louis had been thrown out of a business establishment, but there was something uniquely humiliating about it happening in the middle of the damn day while he was stone-cold sober. Louis gazed forlornly through the windows of the shop after Mitch had closed the door on him, momentarily considering just standing outside until Harry inevitably left for the day, before realising how insane that sounded—what was wrong with him?

Louis made the trek back to his flat with his metaphorical tail between his legs. Liam was up by the time he walked through the front door, and Louis could tell right off the bat that Liam had clued in to the fact that something was wrong. Not that Louis had made much effort to hide it.

“Where’ve you been?” Liam asked through a mouthful of Frosties.

Louis stalked over to the fridge with a loud sigh. He hesitated before responding, not sure if he was ready to subject himself to the inevitable humiliation that would ensue if he told the other lads the truth about his little field trip. “Shopping,” he said curtly, settling for bending the truth.

Liam arched an eyebrow at the fact that Louis had clearly come back to the flat empty-handed, but he seemed to take the hint.

“How was your date?” Louis asked as he raided the back of the fridge for leftovers, deflecting in case Liam mustered up the courage to pursue his previous line of questioning.

“Oh.” Liam paused with his spoon raised halfway up to his mouth. “It was all right.”

“Just all right?”

Liam shrugged. “I think—” He swallowed noisily. “I think maybe we’re moving too fast.”

Louis stared at Liam in disbelief. The man practically started planning weddings every time he so much as kissed a girl.

“I know, I know,” Liam continued, seeing the look on Liam’s face. “But I really like her, you know? I just don’t want to rush it.”

“Good on you, mate,” Louis remarked, patting Liam on the shoulder as he moved past him to get to the microwave. He stared at his container of Chinese as it spun around and around, wondering if Harry was more of a romantic like Liam and Zayn, or someone who preferred to live in the moment like Niall. Louis could have kicked himself when he realised where his mind had wandered off to.

It was getting to be too much. He had to end this.

But Louis wasn’t faring any better once the weekend was over. If anything, his obsession had only gotten worse, which was why he had chosen to tag along with Niall—loyal, unjudging, faithful Niall—to his psychology course on Monday afternoon, with every intention of confronting Harry once the class was let out.

Louis was fully aware that he looked like an absolute nutter sitting on the floor out in the corridor, waiting for the flood of students to rush out, but he didn’t care. He was going to face Harry once and for all and find out just what the hell had happened back at the shop that had spooked Harry so bad.

Louis leapt to his feet as soon as the door opened and the trickle of bodies began to emerge. He scanned the crowd for a familiar head of curly brown hair, his eyes drifting over Niall, who gave him a pat on the back as he passed, but it wasn’t until the flow of students had nearly stopped that Louis finally spotted Harry, this time dressed much more casually in a grey hoodie, with a pair of white sunglasses pushed up onto his head.

Louis didn’t fancy his chances at confronting Harry in the middle of the corridor, so he hung back against the wall as Harry walked by without looking up, and then followed him, making sure to stay just a few paces behind so as not to attract his attention.

His opportunity finally presented himself when Harry ducked into one of the washrooms. Louis held his breath and walked in after him, relieved to find that it was empty with the exception of Harry and himself. Harry was at the sink, going through his bag, and Louis stood behind him, waiting.

Harry glanced up to look in the mirror and froze. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he spat out venomously before whirling around to face Louis. “What the hell is your problem?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Louis replied.

“You’re mad,” Harry said flatly.

“Maybe. But I know something happened between us in the shop that night, and I know you must feel the same, else you wouldn’t be trying so hard to avoid me.” Louis met Harry’s glare head-on, refusing to back down.

Harry’s nostrils flared as he sighed. “Fine. But I’m not having this conversation in a fucking loo.”

“I’m open to suggestions,” Louis said, trying and failing to suppress a smirk.

Harry just rolled his eyes and walked straight out of the washroom, not even waiting for Louis to catch up before heading straight for the doors at the far end of the corridor that led out into the courtyard, where a herd of students had congregated during the break between classes. Harry waved at more than a few people as they passed through, Louis struggling to keep up with Harry’s longer stride.

Harry didn’t say a word to him until they’d left the university entirely, and Louis wondered if that was on purpose, if Harry didn’t want to be seen speaking to Louis by anyone he might know. “There’s a coffeeshop down the road,” Harry finally said after they had been walking long enough that they could have had an entire conversation right there on the pavement and already gone their separate ways.

Louis was beginning to feel a bit embarrassed about his persistence, but Harry’s agreement to even do this had been the final evidence Louis needed to believe that his instincts had been right. And well, he was too deep to back out now.

Louis was surprised when Harry held the door open for him once they reached the coffeeshop, but it wasn’t accompanied by any other pleasantries. Harry looked positively miserable as they sat down at a tiny little table in the far corner of the establishment, his hands tucked up into the sleeves of his hoodie and wrapped around his torso protectively. Louis wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he knew it would be a mistake.

“So,” Louis said, regretting speaking just as soon as he opened his mouth.

Harry looked at him sharply, but then his expression quickly turned pathetic as he glanced back down at the table. “I’m actually psychic,” he said suddenly, speaking so quickly and quietly that Louis wasn’t quite sure at first that he’d heard correctly.

“You’re—”

“Psychic,” Harry snapped. “The readings I do at the shop? I’m not faking them. But—” He paused, and for a moment Louis was afraid he was going to run away again. “Sometimes I can’t control the things I see,” Harry continued, slowing down now to his normal speaking pace, which was practically a snail’s crawl. “And sometimes, if I touch someone, close enough to when it’s going to happen, I can see how someone’s going to die.”

Louis wanted to laugh at how absurd it all sounded, but Harry looked so pitiful saying it, like he was only seconds away from breaking into tears, that he just couldn’t. But that still didn’t mean he was buying what Harry was trying to sell. “You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?” he said.

“Actually,” Harry replied sharply, “I do, seeing as you’ve been the one stalking me because we shared a ‘moment’ in a corner shop at two AM.”

Louis had to admit he had a point there. “So explain how it works to me. You touch someone and just…know exactly how they’re going to die?”

Harry shook his head emphatically. “It’s just a flash,” he explained. “Just a few seconds at the most of—” He wiggled his hand around in the air wildly, as if that answered Louis’s question.

“You’re really serious about this.”

Harry nodded.

“Well, how long do I have then?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied in a tiny voice. “It’s not exactly a precise science.”

Louis was quiet for a minute, trying to process it all. He didn’t think he was succeeding. “How’s it gonna happen?” he asked, morbidly curious about how Harry had seen him go down.

“I already told you,” Harry hedged, refusing to meet Louis’s eyes, “I can’t see all the specifics.”

“Then what _did_ you see?”

“Blood,” Harry replied with a quick glance at Louis’s face. “Lots of blood. Then nothing.”

Louis contemplated that for a moment. “Huh. Well at least I wasn’t drowning in my own vomit. Or falling into a well.”

“You seem to be taking all of this rather well, considering.”

“Well, you know. It is what it is.”

A spark of realisation suddenly dawned on Harry’s face. “You really think you can stop it from happening.” Harry rapidly pre-empted Louis’s inevitable response. “You can’t, you know. Whatever happens is meant to happen.”

“Even if I know it’s meant to? Wouldn’t telling me change things already?”

“No,” Harry replied flatly.

Louis sighed and got up from the table without saying a word to order two lattes. He was pleased to see that Harry was still there when he got back. He handed Harry his drink, watching as the other boy eyed it suspiciously before taking a hesitant sip.

“Good?” Louis asked.

Harry nodded. “Why?”

“As a thank you. For tipping me off.”

“You’re still on this?” Harry said with a sigh. “You really think you can beat fate or God or whatever the hell it is that makes me see this shit?”

Louis raised his eyebrows. “Would it hurt to try?”

“I suppose not,” Harry grumbled into his cup.

Louis wondered how many times Harry had had this exact conversation only for the person sitting across from him to end up dead days later. He suddenly felt cold, the reality of it all finally sinking in. But Louis wasn’t one to take things lying down. If he was ready, he could beat this.

They finished their coffee in silence. When they both stood simultaneously and walked out of the coffeeshop together, Louis expected that to be the end of it, that they would go their separate ways and likely never see each other again. If Louis lived, he’d make sure to send Harry a Christmas card.

But when Louis turned left to go back down the road toward his own flat, he was surprised to find Harry matching his steps alongside him. “What are you doing?” he asked bluntly.

Harry had the audacity to look surprised by the question. “Well, I’m not just going to abandon you now, am I?”

Louis snorted and continued walking.

“Where are we going?” Harry inquired innocently, after they’d continued on for another dozen yards or so.

“Home,” Louis replied. “I need to get ready for work. But you’re welcome to come with if you really feel that responsible for what happens to me.”

Harry didn’t answer, just wrinkled his nose a little in visible annoyance, but he stuck by Louis all the way back to his flat, only growing shy when Louis opened the door to a cacophony of noise coming from inside.

Louis could tell by the music playing that it was Zayn who was home, which he was grateful for. Zayn would mock him mercilessly for this later, but he had the good sense to at least keep his mouth shut with Harry still in the room. And with Harry virtually cowering behind him as they entered the flat, Louis felt an oddly protective urge rising up inside of him, like he needed to cover Harry with a blanket and carry him away from the non-existent danger.

Zayn, true to form, gave Louis a pointed look as they passed by the sitting room, but didn’t say a word.

Louis led Harry into his bedroom and shut the door securely behind them with a sigh. “You can sit there,” he said, gesturing to his bed—still unmade. “We won’t be here long.”

Harry sat down obediently with his hands clasped in his lap as Louis flitted around the room, alternating between grabbing bits and pieces of his uniform for work and cleaning random debris from off his floor. After collecting all of the necessary components, Louis stripped off his shirt and began to change.

He was halfway through the neck-hole of his polo when he heard a choking noise emanating from his bed. Louis pulled his shirt down and stared sceptically at Harry, whose fingers were tangled up now in the duvet, his cheeks pink as he gazed intently down at the floor.

“You all right?” Louis asked, unable to keep a note of amusement out of his voice.

“Peachy,” Harry replied. “Nice tattoos.”

“Thanks.”

“Love the polo,” he added as an afterthought. It was clearly meant as a dig, but Louis could give as good as he got.

“It’s no flower-child tunic,” he shot back, “but we can’t all be so lucky.”

Harry went bright-red at that, and Louis turned away, satisfied with the reaction he’d gotten.

Louis spared a few minutes to brush his teeth and re-apply deodorant, after which he gestured for Harry to follow him back out of his room. Zayn was gone now, Louis was relieved to note, which meant they didn’t have to endure anymore knowing looks as they left the flat.

They walked in silence from Louis’s flat to the corner shop. Louis wanted to ask Harry a lot of things, but he couldn’t sort through any of the thoughts fast enough to come up with something coherent. He couldn’t tell the reason for Harry’s silence; his face was utterly neutral as they walked side by side on the pavement.

Harry started to look a little more apprehensive as they closed in on Louis’s workplace. Louis opened the door for him and watched nervously as he stepped inside. Louis was suddenly worried he might bolt again and leave Louis to deal with the issue of his impending death alone.

Ben was sitting behind the counter as expected. Louis adopted a nonchalant expression despite the surveying glance Ben gave Harry as they approached the counter. “This is my manager, Ben,” Louis explained to Harry as Ben stood up and stretched before taking Harry’s hand.

They shook briefly, and then Harry snatched his hands back, carefully tucking them into his hoodie sleeves once more. Louis instantly felt like an idiot. Of course Harry wouldn’t want to shake someone’s hand after what had happened the last time, in this very place.

“This is my—friend, Harry,” Louis continued, stumbling over the words badly enough that Ben gave him a quizzical look. “It’s cool if he hangs around during my shift, yeah?”

Ben nodded. “As long as he doesn’t steal anything,” Ben joked, giving Louis a friendly pat on the shoulder before collecting his keys and getting ready to leave.

Louis shook his head and walked behind the counter, ducking into the supply closet to find a stool for Harry to sit on. When he re-emerged, Harry was carefully studying the whole place like he’d come from another planet. Hell, for all Louis knew, Harry really was an alien. Maybe that would explain the whole psychic thing.

“How did you find out that you could…see things?” Louis ventured uncertainly. He wasn’t sure if there was some kind of psychic etiquette he should be following. Were there anti-psychic slurs? He was utterly lost.

Harry turned to look at him, spotting the stool instantly and making a beeline for it. He stared up at Louis pensively, chewing at the inside of his cheek. “When I hugged my granddad and he died a week later exactly how I saw it happen,” he finally answered.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Does your family know?” Louis asked, hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck with this line of questioning.

“My mum and sister, yeah. My dad wouldn’t get it, so.” He left it at that.

A few minutes of silence passed between them before Louis mustered up the courage to speak again. “Is it hard?”

“Sometimes.” Harry left it at that, and Louis sensed that it would be a while before he was allowed to know the rest. He found himself desperately hoping for that chance as he stared at Harry in profile, his slightly chubby cheeks at odds with his angular jaw, his triangular nose just a bit too wide to be considered attractive, his eyes too far apart, his mouth too big—he was perfect.

Louis knew if he wasn’t careful, he wouldn’t be able to stop staring at Harry, but luckily the chimes over the door went off before he had a chance to be caught out. Louis turned his attention to the customer who had just entered instead, an older man who stumbled over to the snack section, snatched up a bunch of crisps, and allowed Louis to ring him up without saying a single word.

When he was gone again, Louis turned his eyes back toward Harry, but Harry had occupied himself with a magazine from the rack in the meantime, and Louis didn’t want to be the arsehole to interrupt him with more small talk. He pulled out his phone instead, propping it up against the sweets display on the counter and popping on a bit of Netflix.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, glancing over in curiosity as Louis hit play.

“Luther.” Seeing the confusion on Harry’s face, he explained, “It’s a crime show.”

Harry groaned. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those detective show junkies.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You don’t even look like the type,” Harry said disgustedly. “You look like…I don’t know, like you binge every season of Top Gear and Supernatural.”

Louis wasn’t exactly sure how insulted he was meant to be by that, but he adopted a hurt expression anyway. “Well, if we’re going by looks,” he replied carefully, “I’d expect you to be religiously into documentaries and rom-coms.”

Harry flushed.

“Wait, I was right?” Louis said, delighted. “About which one?” When Harry didn’t respond, it only confirmed his suspicions. “Dead on, then, yeah? Maybe I’m the psychic one.”

Harry rolled his eyes and gestured toward the phone. “Just play the damn show already.”

Louis acquiesced, leaving Harry to occupy himself with the latest in the queue of Louis’s procedural fixations. He seemed entertained enough, going through nearly three episodes without hardly blinking while Louis busied himself with various tasks around the shop: cleaning, restocking, helping the odd customer as they slowly trickled in throughout the evening.

Things slowed down considerably after suppertime, so Louis went back to watching his phone with Harry, finally allowing himself to get invested as the episode neared its climax.

Which was of course when the next customer decided to show up, and Louis was forced to turn his attention away from the penultimate scene to monitor some grungy looking teenager as he skulked along the back wall, heading conspicuously for the liquor section.

Louis had worked in the shop long enough that he could tell right off the bat when something was off, so he wasted no time in sliding out of his chair and heading into the back of the shop to confront the suspicious-looking youth. He’d learned it was better to scare off the would-be thieves before they had a chance to actually steal anything, rather than waiting until after to confront them.

He could feel Harry’s eyes following him as he moved from the counter to the back of the store, and heard the squeak of the stool being moved, but ignored it. Louis was intent on ridding himself of this pest before things got messy.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely as he came up behind the young man. Usually the question alone was enough to send hoodlums running in the other direction.

As the boy turned around, Louis had barely enough time to make out the glint of metal under the fluorescent lights before he was being tackled to the ground. He sat up, dazed, in time to see Harry tangled up with the other boy, his arms stretched all the way out to keep the switchblade in the boy’s hand away from his body as he attempted to pin him down.

Louis scrambled to his feet, but not fast enough. The boy elbowed Harry in the face, sending him flying back, but Louis was on him a second later, stomping hard on his wrist until he squealed in pain and let go of the knife. Louis leaned down to pick it up without moving his foot.

“Go next door to get help,” Louis said to Harry, breathing hard as he straightened up again. “And call the police.”

“I’m not going to leave you alone with—”

“Just do it, Harry!” The adrenaline coursing through Louis’s veins made everything feel sharper than it should, like he was staring at the world through a macro lens. He felt like he could make out every spot, every pore on the boy’s face as he squirmed on the floor underneath him. He really was still a boy, certainly no older than twenty, if that. Louis almost felt bad that the police were going to be involved, but then he remembered the knife in his hand, the look on Harry’s face when the boy had hit him in the face.

Harry’s vision, of Louis dying, covered in his own blood.

Harry was only gone for a minute or two, but it felt like far longer when he finally returned with the burly bearded shop owner from the athletic shop next door. By the time the other man helped Louis subdue the boy, the police had arrived to take over, and Louis stepped back from the whole scene, taking just enough time to text Ben to tell him what had happened before turning his attention back to Harry.

Harry, whose eyes had been brimming with tears ever since he’d come back into the shop, and who broke down just as soon as Louis turned around to pull him into a hug. Louis held him tightly as he sobbed into Louis’s shoulder for a solid minute and a half, just trying to wait him out and get him calmed down before they had to give their statements to the police.

“Hey, hey,” he said soothingly, rubbing small circles between Harry’s shoulder blades. “It’s all right now, yeah? We’re both fine. It’s over.”

Harry pulled back just far enough that Louis could see a trickle of blood coming out of his nose and he hissed sympathetically. “I thought you were going to die,” Harry said in an utterly morose voice, before Louis had a chance to bring any attention to Harry’s injury.

“I’m not hurt at all,” Louis reassured him. “We did it. Fate can suck my dick.”

That garnered a laugh out of Harry, but they didn’t have a chance to say anything else before the police officers pulled them away for questioning. It wasn’t overly thorough; CCTV and the fact that they’d caught the culprit red-handed made the investigative portion rather straightforward. Louis listened in while Harry gave his statement, and was surprised to find out that Harry apparently knew the kid, that they’d had classes together his first year of uni.

Ben showed midway through Louis’s round with the police to close up the shop for the night. As soon as Louis was finished, he gave the boy his own once-over while Harry was checked by a paramedic.

“Go straight home,” Ben told him. “You can have a couple days off too to get your bearings. I’ll make do without you. I don’t need to lose a good employee to trauma.”

“I’ll be fine,” Louis argued, but secretly he was glad to have the break.

He wasn’t sure if it was the comedown from the adrenaline or the relief of knowing that Harry’s premonition had been successfully thwarted, but Louis felt almost like he was having an out-of-body experience when he walked over to Harry to take his hand and lead him out of the shop.

“Let’s go home, eh?” he said quietly, his head still floaty even as he tried to ground himself in Harry’s touch.

Harry nodded, waiting until they were out the doors to give Louis a pointed tug in the opposite direction of Louis’s flat. “My place,” he suggested, pointing down the road. “I actually live just there.”

Louis couldn’t believe that Harry lived so close to the shop where he worked and yet, they’d never so much as run into each other until the night Harry had touched his hand and sparked this entire chain of events. Maybe it really had been an intervention of fate, just not in the way Harry had thought.

They barely made it up the stairs and into Harry’s flat before they fell into each other, Louis’s mouth searching for Harry’s in the darkness as Harry fumbled to turn on the lights. Louis refused to stop even when Harry finally succeeded. He coaxed Harry’s lips open, tonguing into him desperately, knowing it was all too sloppy and graceless for a first kiss, but totally unable to care.

“Ow!” Harry suddenly jumped back, clutching his nose, his eyes watering.

“Shit, sorry,” Louis said, taking a step back too, just to be safe. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop touching Harry if he stayed too close. “Do you have an ice pack?”

“In the freezer,” Harry replied nasally.

Louis turned around, taking in the flat for the first time since they’d walked in. It was a tiny one-room studio, but already Louis could tell it was a lot nicer than his own flat, even if Harry was (surprisingly) just as messy. Louis homed in on the stainless-steel fridge that towered over the kitchenette, quickly digging through a small collection of frozen fruits and vegetables before finally procuring a suitable ice pack for Harry’s face.

He wrapped it in a hand towel and presented it to Harry, who had moved over during his search to perch on the tiny island that separated the kitchen area from the rest of the living space.

“Thanks,” he said, pressing the ice against his face with a gratified sigh.

Louis placed his hands on the counter on either side of Harry’s thighs and leaned forward, hyper-conscious of their positions as he gazed up at Harry, who was blinking owlishly back at him from behind the ice pack. “How do you feel?” Louis asked.

“Not great,” Harry replied honestly.

Louis moved his hands to Harry’s knees. “How about now?” he asked, while gently pushing Harry’s legs apart.

“Getting there.” Harry’s breaths started to come in short little pants as Louis moved his hands up Harry’s thighs. “Wait,” Harry said as Louis finally reached his fly.

Louis paused, looking up at him expectantly, unable to keep a little bit of pleading out of his eyes. He wasn’t above begging.

“You’re clean, right?”

Louis had never been so relieved to hear that question. “Surely you’d be able to tell if I wasn’t,” he teased.

“I’m not a mind-reader, Louis.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Louis started to yank down Harry’s zip and then paused again. “Are you? Clean, I mean.”

“As a whistle.”

Louis was satisfied with that answer, and he didn’t think Harry had any reason to lie to him, unless he’d actually seen Louis dying of syphilis and this was all a long con. He yanked Harry’s jeans and pants down in one go, waiting until Harry had managed to detangle himself from his hoodie and the shirt underneath before getting down on his knees to breathe wetly over Harry’s half-hard dick.

Louis started with kitten licks, then moving on to slow swipes with the flat of his tongue, but he hadn’t even gotten to the main event before Harry’s hand wound into his hair, pulling him off entirely.

“Wait, stop.”

“What’s wrong?” Louis asked, leaning back on his heels to look up at Harry, worried he’d somehow fucked up and was about to be kicked—figuratively—out of bed.

“I want you to fuck me,” Harry said, his eyes hooded in pleasure, and Louis almost choked on his own tongue.

Louis scooped Harry up in his arms without hesitation and stumbled awkwardly over to the bed in the corner of Harry’s flat, overwhelmed by the long limbs tightly encircling him as he dumped the both of them onto the mattress with an undignified grunt of exertion. Harry laughed lightly as he flopped back onto the pile of pillows, his hair splayed out under his head like a halo.

Louis was so hard he could barely breathe, could barely think, his thoughts reduced to truncated caveman-esque phrases, all revolving around the urge to touch, to be inside Harry _now_.

But he couldn’t force himself to move back far enough from Harry to do more than grind desperate circles into the cradle of Harry’s hips, until finally Harry nudged him back with his knees, giving them both a little room to breathe again.

“Hurry,” Harry said between gasping breaths, already trying to peel Louis’s damp boxers down his thighs.

Louis pushed his hands out of the way, rearing back even more to quickly shimmy the rest of the way out of his pants. By the time he’d untangled them from around his ankles and tossed the scrap of fabric off into the darkness somewhere, Harry’s right hand was buried between his legs, and his head was tossed back in an expression of beautiful agony.

Louis just watched for a moment, and then he couldn’t watch any longer. “Do you have—?” he managed to eke out, afraid Harry would stop if interrupted.

He didn’t stop. “Under the bed,” Harry groaned.

Louis practically dove underneath the bed to dig out the shoebox full of goodies Harry apparently kept on hand for situations like this one. Louis couldn’t exactly complain about that. He pulled the condom on with trembling fingers and slicked the outside with lube with a few cursory strokes, figuring Harry would tell him when he was ready.

Harry did a bit more than that, reaching out to pull Louis back into him before clumsily attempting to line them up. After a few failed attempts, Louis finally reached down to push himself in, gritting his teeth as he gradually pulled Harry’s hips toward his own.

They stayed there just like that, neither moving a centimetre, for nearly half a minute while Harry attempted to catch his breath and Louis tried to keep himself from spilling before he’d even pulled out once.

“This isn’t like, a cockwarming thing, is it?” Harry finally breathed out, blinking up at Louis with a dopey grin plastered across his face.

Louis wanted to kiss it off him. “Would that be something you’re into?”

“Maybe later,” Harry replied, bucking his hips pointedly up into Louis’s pelvis.

Louis hissed, digging his thumbs into Harry’s love handles hard enough that he knew it would leave bruises, and then backed off—slowly at first, before punching in fast and rough on the downstroke. Harry let out a wounded keen, only spurring Louis to hump into him even harder, chasing every strangled moan with a clumsy press of lips against any part of Harry’s skin that he could find.

Louis could tell that this was going to be over faster than he would have liked, so he reached down to get a hand on Harry, letting out a muted grunt when Harry instinctively tightened up around him in response.

“How do you want it?” he asked, panting, slowing down his own thrusts to give Harry’s cock a testing stroke.

Harry didn’t answer, instead curling his own fingers around Louis’s and tightening them into a death grip before starting a slow stroke up. Louis got the idea, even if it was radically different than his own preferred routine of rapid-fire, frictionless movement.

Harry came apart first in Louis’s hand, gasping almost in time with the pulses of come shooting across his stomach, coating miles and miles of inked skin. Louis almost lost it at the sight and pulled out quickly, clamping a hand down around the base of his cock to keep his orgasm at bay as he slid out.

“Can I come on you?” he gasped.

Harry nodded, and that was all the permission Louis needed. He released his cock with a hiss, reaching down to hook Harry’s legs up and over his shoulders before yanking off the condom and spilling all over Harry’s spread-open arse.

Louis sat knelt there between Harry’s legs for a long moment, breathing heavily. He reached out with two fingers and pushed some of his own come back inside Harry, feeling his spent cock twitching valiantly as he sank back inside up to the knuckle, causing Harry to let out a shrill hiss.

It was probably the single filthiest thing Louis had done during a one-night stand, though it wasn’t like they were many in number, but it was hard to feel embarrassed when faced with Harry’s blissed-out expression. Louis carefully detangled Harry’s ankles from behind his head before letting him down onto the bed, and then rolled over onto his side to join him, doing his best to bask in the afterglow.

Louis stared openly at Harry through his left eye while the right side of his face remained smashed into the pillow, fully intending to lay there as long as Harry would let him, while absently admiring the bruising that was already beginning to form along the bottom of Harry’s eye socket.

“You’re gonna have a black eye in the morning,” Louis told him in a moment of realisation, before hopping off the mattress with a groan and waddling back into the kitchen to retrieve the ice pack that had been left abandoned in the heat of the moment. There was come drying tacky on the inside of his thighs, and he knew Harry couldn’t be faring any better, so he grabbed a washcloth off the front of the oven and wet it before returning to bed. “Lift up,” he commanded while handing over the ice pack for Harry to take.

Harry obeyed, splaying his legs on either side of Louis’s shoulders like he was at a gyno appointment—and if that wasn’t the sexiest thought Louis had ever had while in bed, he didn’t know what was—so that Louis could gently wipe away the tell-tale traces of their activities from the curve of Harry’s arse, wincing apologetically when Harry let out a sensitive hiss.

“Better?” he asked, lowering Harry’s legs again before applying the same treatment to his stomach.

Harry stared at him balefully through his good eye, the other covered by the ice pack once more. “I’ll live,” he replied dully. “Thanks,” he added quickly, as if he were afraid Louis might take his brusque humour too seriously and take offense.

“We should sleep,” Louis told him, gently motioning for Harry to roll over so Louis could spoon against his back. It was less awkward than it should have been considering Harry’s size. It felt right, somehow.

Harry yawned, and Louis was so close that he could feel his diaphragm expanding and then contracting as if they were sharing a pair of lungs. “Okay,” Harry acquiesced sleepily. He was snoring within minutes.

Louis was a little while longer in joining him, savouring the ability to watch Harry’s slack face and open mouth, utterly relaxed in sleep, before he finally allowed his eyes to drift closed so Louis could join him.

Louis woke to the bed shifting under him and what sounded like Big Ben chiming from the other end of the room. He cracked open one eye to see Harry climbing out of the bed. Harry stopped to pick up a pair of pants off the floor, and Louis opened his eyes a little wider to watch as he bent at the waist to slide them on. He turned, making some gesture that Louis couldn’t make out in the darkness, and something landed on the bed near Louis’s knee with a soft thump.

“Your phone’s going off,” Harry said as Big Ben chimed again.

Louis sat up abruptly, picking up the discarded phone and putting it to his ear without even bothering to glance at the screen first. “Hello?” He stumbled out of bed, scurrying around the room to try and collect his clothes and put them back on again while Harry did the same.

Big Ben chimed a third time.

“Louis, mate? Where the hell are you?” It was Liam.

“I’ll explain later,” Louis mumbled, hopping awkwardly as he tried to yank his trousers up over his thighs.

“Someone came by the flat looking for you,” Liam told him. “Some real nasty-looking bloke, said you owed him money or something.”

“What?” Louis wasn’t stupid enough to borrow money, and he couldn’t think of anyone that Liam would outright call ‘nasty-looking’ off the top of his head.

Big Ben sounded again. “Coming!” Harry yelled, and Louis finally connected the dots, realising the sound was Harry’s doorbell.

Louis froze. “Wait!” he called out to Harry, dropping his phone onto the hardwood floor with a loud clatter, but Harry was already opening the door.

Louis’s limbs moved of their own accord, operating on pure instinct as he surged forward to shove Harry out of the way, only to come face to face with an older, broader version of the boy who had tried to knife him in the shop the night before. Only this man didn’t have a knife. He had a gun.

There was a deafening pop, like a firecracker going off in Louis’s ear, and he felt suddenly as if someone had punched him hard, straight in the abdomen. He looked down to find a red stain spreading rapidly across his threadbare graphic tee and crumpled to the floor.

The man with the gun still in his hand looked almost as startled as Louis. It wasn’t until Harry leapt forward with an anguished cry that he finally ran, and Louis could see through the crack in the door that people had started to emerge out onto the street at the sound of the gun going off.

Harry was muttering frantic curses under his breath as he pulled Louis’s head up into his lap, interspersed with uncommonly loud ‘no’s every so often. He hovered his hand over the wound, looking panicked and uncertain, before finally pressing down on it directly with the palm of his hand.

Louis grunted at the jolt of pain that coursed through his torso at the sudden application of pressure.

“Sorry,” Harry babbled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do, oh my god.”

Louis blinked up at him. “You’re doing—”

Everything went black after that.

Louis woke up in a white room with tubes in his arms—and one that he was pretty sure was in his dick—and it didn’t take him long to recall what had happened. He looked around for a call button, instead finding a familiar silhouette slumped over against the wall.

“I didn’t die,” Louis croaked triumphantly, hoping Harry wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull off a second take.

Harry’s head lifted up off his chest. He looked haggard, like he hadn’t slept in a week, but Louis could tell he hadn’t been out of commission more than a day or so. “I’m not convinced you aren’t going to die of sepsis the second I take my eyes off you,” Harry replied. His voice sounded nearly as raw as Louis’s had, though Louis expected his was due to tears, rather than disuse. Harry really was a crybaby.

Louis smiled at him fondly. “Guess we’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen, then.” He made a feeble attempt to lift his arm and then sighed in frustration when it tugged at his IV. “Can you come here, please?” Louis asked pathetically.

Harry looked worried as he shot up out of the chair and darted to Louis’s side. “Is something wrong? Should I call a nurse?”

“Closer,” Louis said, ignoring his frenetic questions.

Harry frowned, but leaned forward in compliance. Louis stretched his neck out as far as he could manage, and pecked Harry lightly on the lips. “There.”

“All that effort for that?” Harry replied dryly.

Louis ignored him. “Maybe your gift isn’t all bad, eh?”

Harry shook his head with a soft smile and leaned in again to return the kiss. “Maybe you’re right.”


End file.
